Wjork the Mighty, Wjork the Meek
by EDGE-HANGER
Summary: Three thieves try to hit all of Whiterun in one night. A small army of guards and mercenaries stand in the way. Sounds pretty ambitious, and a tad bit suicidal, right? Maybe it's a death trap. Maybe it'll be a breeze. One thing is for certain; no one will walk away empty handed, and no one will walk away scot-free.


It was the night of the big one. The job.

Talos was on the side of the Thieves. The darkness was thick, foggy, and cold, perfect natural protection from detection.

Three hooded thieves, crouching, hunched on the rooftop, silently sneaked over shingles and loose wood, towards the center of the roof.

They might as well have been invisible The nosy guards below could not see the three shadows dance through the night. All was well.

Over the past week, rumours of the job had spread through Whiterun like wildfire. There was no question that it was going to happen. Shopkeeps had tried to send heavily armed caravans full of valuables to Solitude for safekeeping; they were intercepted, of course. Townsfolk constantly barraged the Guard barracks with complaints of missing coin bags and loaves of bread; the guards seemed to be nervous as well. They had taken to interrogating travelers, jailing petty thieves and town drunks, searching for any and all of the populace for signs of Thieves Guild affiliation. Obviously they hadn't been searching the right people.

Wjork, the Thane, the decorated Stormcloak war hero, the famed adventurer, the budding and beloved politician? Coldblooded and icy eyed Wjork, the Wjork the Strong, Wjork the Mighty?

Wjork, the Nordic warrior who crushed countless Imperial skulls with the devastating THAWK of his hammer? Who fought side-by side with Ulfric?

Wjork was a dirty thief, a murderer, a Skooma addict, and a liar of the worst sorts. Thieves, assassins, Skooma dealers, and corrupt officials filtered in and out of Breezehome at all hours of the day and night. He was not an honorable man, by any stretch of the imagination.

His long, shaggy blond hair was obscured by both his hood and the darkness, as was the red battle-paint and scars that decorated his face. Each scar told a tale. The one above his cheek? A woman who fought back during his first almost failed assassination attempt. The one below his eye? The Forsworn guard who snuck up from behind and ambushed him while he tried to sneak into the camp for food, starving and cold. He had that scar since he was a boy. He was cut with new scars all the time; it came with his line of work.

Mercenaries had been brought in by the shopkeepers. They patrolled the town, alongside the guards. Below, he could see the dull glow of four torches marching towards the stone steps.

_I could just pick them off, one, two, three, four,_ he thought.

The bloodrage in him hummed a bit, started to sing, but he managed stem his lust. It was too early.

_Men will die tonight,_ he thought._ I will wait._

The two other hooded figures, Vex, and a promising new Kjhait thief named Zarathustra, joined Wjork at the center of the roof.

In a gruff, whiskey soaked whisper, Wjork said,

"Zara, the Cauldron won't have security. Shouldn't be a problem. Throw whatever you can in the sack. That's ours. The safe upstairs should have some gold in it. That's your cut. Should be about 2,000."

Through the darkness, Zara's eyes seemed to light up.

"That's a huge cut for your first job, kid. Earn it. Don't botch it."

Wjork stood, and swiftly stomped into the roof. The wood cracked. A hole, large enough for Zara to jump into, formed.

Paw first, he lowered himself into the hole. As he fell into the store, Wjork whispered to him.

"Shed no blood, or you'll wake up in Riften Harbour bound to a boulder." Nodding, Zara disappeared into the darkness of the Cauldron.

"Our turn," whispered Vex. Silently, they both scampered to the adjoining rooftop on the left.

Vex slammed her foot into the wood, and with a crack, the same hole formed.

"There's going to be at least three mercenaries in the storefront. We'll be landing down in kitchen," Wjork said.

"I know," Vex snapped. " I've seen the map. I know the plan. I'm going first." She did a sort of half jump down the crack and managed to land soundlessly below.

Wjork, a bit larger, shifted into the hole and fell into the darkness.

He landed a bit awkwardly, and let out a tiny groan of pain. Vex peered apprehensively at him from under her hood.

"You're not as nimble as you first were when you joined the Guild." she whispered.

Wjork smirked.

"Age has graced you Vex," he whispered. "Not me. I'm a bitter, torn up old man."

Vex approached him, and leaned in as close as she could. He could hear her shallow breathing, could almost feel her heartbeat.

She stared at him, he stared at her, and she whispered,

"I wouldn't have you any other way."

Someone shifted in the other room, and Vex jumped back, into the shadows, silently drawing her bow. The room had one door. Wjork hid, body pressed up to the adjacent wall.

Wjork had mastered the art of quick drawing his war hammer; in a blur of motion it came unstrapped from his back and he held it, ready in his arms.

Footsteps echoed from the other room. The doorknob began to turn. A leather boot stepped through, and soon armed mercenary entered, closing the door behind him.

Lantern light light illuminated the space directly in front of him. He turned towards the door again, muttering to himself;

"Must be another one of those damned rats. Disgust-"

Plink of a bow, and instantaneously the man had crashed to the floor. Vex's arrow flew straight through the back of his skull, lodged deep in his

brain. He was not going to stand back up.

"Orvak," a voice called from the storefront, "Are you ok?"

Rapid footsteps, the door flung open,and Wjork lunged at the man.

Before he could even draw his sword, his neck was trapped between Wjork's heavy body and his hammer; Wjork thrashed up and down, and after a brief struggle

he heard the mercenary's neck snap.

All was silent. Bloodrage coursed through Wjork's veins. He moved towards the man he had just killed. It was time for stage two.

"Can you wear men's clothing, Vex?" asked Wjork.

Vex was not amused. "Silence, you barbarous fool," she spat. "If you look at me while I change, I'll slit your throat."

Wjork laughed. "The same applies to you."

Wjork stripped off his Guild armor, and threw it in the enchanted sack that they had brought along for the loot. Clad in his loincloth, he turned toward the

body of the guard he had killed.

Vex stood before him, in her undergarments, her pale white skin illuminated by the mercenaries dropped lantern.

Wjork stepped over the corpse of the man he had killed, moving closer to her shadowy figure. They pressed together, shadows dancing in the night. Slowly, Vex slid her hands down Wjork's bare chest, down past his torso; removing his loincloth.

"What-what about Zara-"

"He's fine, you oaf," Vex whispered. "He knows what to do. He's probably halfway to Riften. But we're alone...in a room full of corpses." She slowly traced her fingers across his inner groin.

"If that spread warmth to your cold heart you...barbarian...I'm not sure what will."

The night was just getting started. As they fell to the floor, writhing in vicious ecstasy, they had no idea how this job would end up. They were set to loot every store in Whiterun. They were going to raid the Companion's Guild… loot the personal armory of the Jarl...

Wjork was right...by the end of it all, someone was going to die.


End file.
